#when i think about lucas and ordinary domesticity. things he's been denied. well. it does things. to me

[dulcesiabits]

A lot of my lucas writings feel unshareable just because he's Like That, so I have to carefully curate the things I do choose to post. Anyways, have some snippets! Mild spoilers included, haha.

ii. la cuisine

“You’re bad at this.”

It’s the first thing you’ve said to him all morning, and the sound of your voice sends a pleasurable tremor down his spine. 

Lucas smiles down at the clumpy potatoes in his hands, already reduced to mush from the force of his chopping. It’s difficult to gauge how much of his strength is needed for such delicate tasks. Vegetables turn to pulp. Cakes come out uneven and blackened. His soups turn marshy. He’s gone through several cutting boards just this week alone, often cleaving straight through the wood when he’s not careful. The most he knows how to do is to cut up fruits for you in lopsided shapes, skin still clinging to their flesh. 

You never complain about his sorry attempts at food. You push around the mush he offers you sullenly, averting your gaze from his expectant face. Like a shy cat, you never eat when he’s watching, and you always leave leftovers.

It makes sense; he’s never wielded a kitchen knife before, preferring to buy food at the marche to supplement his nutrition. He could easily do that for you, too. It’s an unforgivable vanity on his part, but Lucas wants to cook for you. He wants you to eat the food he’s made, and to feed you by his own hand. He’s the only one who can take care of you in such a way.

“I’m sorry,” Lucas says to you.

“I don’t know why you’re apologizing,” you mutter.

Your voice is unearthly beautiful. If there was a way to bottle up the sound, he would carry it with him forever. What more could he do to coax you to talk to him? In his excitement, he squeezes the potatoes, and they explode outwards in a shower of mush.

“Oh my,” he says, sighing, shaking his hands. “I’m sorry, my angel. Dinner will take a while longer.”

“... Let me make something.”

“Hm?” Lucas turns, and you’re staring at the floor, bangs covering your eyes. 

“Let me make something,” you repeat. “For dinner.”

“All right,” he says, carefully setting down his knife. You stand slowly, rolling your shoulders, taking careful steps towards the kitchen. You wrinkle your nose at his uneven cubes of meat and half-peeled vegetables, the upturned spice jars.

“What were you making?” you ask.

“Hm? Well, I was just going to cut and fry them up all at once,” he says cheerfully.

“Without a recipe?”

Lucas tilts his head. “Recipe?”

You sigh. “Just… sit down. I’ll make soup for us, or something.”

You snatch the knife from the counter, and pick up a carrot that he had set down while he had mangled the potatoes. With the flat of the blade, you begin scraping away uneven bits of skin that he had missed in his initial attempt. You work deftly, slicing your way through the vegetables, and copping the meat into more even-sided cubes. It’s like magic. Lucas stands at your back, watching the swift movement of your hands, the surety of how you step around his kitchen. 

“Where’s the pot?” you ask.

Lucas swiftly opens a bottom cabinet to pick up a metal pot, placing it on the stove. “Is this good enough?”

You spare a glance, then nod. “Yeah. Can you fill it with water about half way? Turn it on to medium heat, too.”

Lucas flicks on the stove, the flames springing to life, as he meticulously fills the pot with cold water from the sink. When he’s finished, he moves back to your side, where you’re measuring spices with a spoon. Rosemary, thyme, onion powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper… 

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Watching you,” he replies. 

“Why?”

“Because I like seeing how you manage the kitchen,” he says simply, “You’re lovely when you do so.”

You duck your head, hands stilling as you hold up the pepper shaker. “Fine. But don’t stand too close. I can’t focus.”

He backs up a step, and you continue your work. You dump the ingredients into the soup, stirring in spices all the while. In half an hour, the pot is bubbling merrily, and you’re stirring the contents.

For a second, Lucas lets his mind drift. What would it be like to come home to you like this? Would you ever be so comfortable to just relax with him in such a manner? Here you are, cooking in his kitchen. It’s the sort of normalcy he’s never even thought about achieving for himself before. To have you here at all, let alone be able to eat your food, is a blessing. 

You ladle a small bit of soup, bringing it to your mouth to sip. You wrinkle your nose, and then shake a bit more salt into the mixture.

He steps closer, hovering over your shoulder. “May I try some?” he whispers into your ear.

You start, spoon shaking in your hand. Cute. “What?”

“I’d like to try some as well,” he says. 

You stir more vigorously than you need to. “Sure. I guess. Just grab a spoon and–”

“But there’s a spoon right there,” he says innocently.

“Well… I…”

“Is it too much trouble?” he says again. He’s so close that he can feel the warmth of your body, a different sort of heat from the stove in front of you. He can see the swell of your throat, the curve of your cheek, and the flyaway strands of hair that he longs to tuck behind your ear. If he blew a puff of air into your ear, would you forgive him for such childish pranks?

You scoop up a bit of soup, and turn, holding a hand under the spoon as you offer it to him. “Fine. Just take a small sip. It’s hot.”

He leans forward, braid swinging, and sips. There’s a subtle flavor to it, but it’s warm and delicious and it’s your food, so there’s nothing but sincerity in his voice when he says, “It tastes wonderful.”

You abruptly turn around, splashing the spoon back into the pot. “Good. Go sit down. I’m almost done.”

“I want to stay here with you.”

“If you want.” There’s still a trace of wariness in your voice, but the hostility you usually spit at him is gone. When the two of you sit down for dinner later, he feels the heat of your skittish gaze lingering on the crown of his head, but never once looks up to acknowledge it. After all, you would look away if he did, and he wants the moment to last. 

The attention of an angel! That’s something you earn, not something you deserve.

iii. la nuit

It is the selfish part of him that pulls you close to him on nights like this. When the blood has been washed off and the hearts collected, all he wants to do is sink into your embrace. His arm around your waist, your body tucked into the shelter of his body, curving around you. You’re warm, warmer than anything he’s touched before. It’s like holding the sun in his grasp. You always curl in on yourself, fists clenched tightly. 

But there’s nowhere for you to run except into his arms. He’s made sure of that.

You never resist, but you never hold him back when he nuzzles his head on top of yours, pulling you closer to him. Closer, and closer still. Is there a way to pull you into his skin? So you’ll walk alongside him, and never leave? To have you with him forever?

You’re an angel. You’re an angel, and he’s a sinner. His pathetic life, for what little of it is left, is yours. To judge him. To save him. He could tear his own heart and offer it gladly to you, if only to hold you like this for a while longer.

#liya drabbles #virche evermore: error salvation #virche evermore #lucas proust #lucas stans unite!!!!! #when i think about lucas and ordinary domesticity. things he's been denied. well. it does things. to me